


Rubbing One Out Run-Ons

by genee



Category: Actor RPF, Bandom, Music RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>my contributions to the multi-fandom "rubbing one out" run-on sentence challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rubbing One Out Run-Ons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alwayseven](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=alwayseven), [perspexsea](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=perspexsea), [kaizoku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaizoku/gifts), [idiosyncratic (fadedink)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedink/gifts), [ihearthings_ii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihearthings_ii/gifts), [wisdomeagle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wisdomeagle/gifts), [tigerstriped8](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tigerstriped8).



> *On the hazards of running a run-on sentence challenge: a couple of these are in fandoms I'd never written, but I wanted all prompters to get at least one sentence, so I gave them a shot. My sincerest apologies if I didn't quite capture them correctly.

brendon urie, prompt: bus

It's not even fair that Spencer looks like that, he's _sleeping_ for fuck's sake, curtain not quite drawn on his bunk, blankets twisted around his ankles and his hand cupped around the soft bulge of his dick, dark blue cotton and Spencer's skin so pale, his breath in and out, slow and even and nothing like Brendon's, already he's gasping, his dick hard against his belly, leaking, swipe of his thumb, too loud, too fast, and then Spencer opens his eyes and bites his lip and Brendon stills, can't move, can't stop moving, his dick pulsing in his hand, splash of come on his chest, his arm, his sheets.

 

christian kane, prompt: whiskey

Fuck, Chris thinks, fuck, fuck, whiskey on his breath, his fingers, dirty backroom and the buttons of jeans undone, Steve singing his heart out, playing his goddamn guitar like it's the only the thing, like this shithole bar isn't packed to the gills, like Chris isn't even here, isn't so fucking hard he might come if he so much as opens his eyes, his back against the door and his hand on his dick, so good, so good, fingers sliding down, down, sticky and hot and fuck, no further, trace of Steve's fingers, Steve's mouth, and fuck, Steve's scent, sweet smoke and dark sweat and Steve's voice in his ear, _wait for me, right here, like this_ , and Chris has fucked up enough already, he's not about to fuck this up too.

 

jared padalecki, prompt: messily

He has, like, two minutes here, shit, two minutes it's probably not even going to take that long, Jensen's been sprawled all over him for half this shoot, shirtless and sweaty and flashing Jared that fucking wicked grin every time his hipbone rubs up against Jared's dick, every time his thigh pushes in, every time Jared bites back a gasp, a moan, wet heat soaking into his briefs, head of his dick rubbing against the tight elastic waist, and thank fuck it's there or else his dick would spring free, just poke out over the top of his jeans, and fuck, fuck, they called this break with like, seconds to spare, Jensen licking his lips and laughing low and all Jared can do is close the door on the sound of it, heel of his hand pressed hard against his dick, sticky and hot and it's not anywhere near as good as Jensen pressed up against him and still he's coming all over himself, eyes closed, mouth open, coming and coming, splash on his shirt, his chin, his cheek, wet slicking over his fingers, his shaft, his balls, and there's no way he can clean this up here, no way at all Jensen won't smell it on him all afternoon, won't smirk and maybe flush a little, too, his eyes gone dark and dirty, and fuck, Jared really has to stop thinking about that now and wipe up best he can, get his ass back to make-up and get back to work.

 

brian schechter, prompt: the ways

Brian had survived a fuck of a lot already, he'd worked his ass off for everything he had and he didn't miss the things he'd given up, he didn't, but this, this he wasn't sure he could give up, wasn't even sure what it was, because even though he could hear Cortez's porn in the background still, had stopped in long enough to say hey and get an eyeful of fake tits and bare pussies, now that he was in his bunk with the curtain pulled and the lights dimmed all he could think about was the soft skin at the base of Mikey's throat and the way Gerard's mouth had lingered there when he held Mikey close, one hand sliding under Mikey's shirt and tracing along his collarbone, the other curled around his hip, Mikey's eyes meeting Brian's from across the room as he shuddered, pressed closer to his brother, and now Brian was alone with that image and all he could do was suck his lip between his teeth and slide his fingers down behind his balls, sweat slick and rough and pressing in, in, sharp stretch and his other hand twisting on his dick, memory of Gerard murmuring his name against Mikey's skin, the way he sounded, the way they looked, orgasm blurring out everything else, wet heat and dark need and Brian had no fucking idea how he was going to survive this tour, but right now it didn't matter, nothing mattered, just Gerard and Mikey and his own fingers still buried deep inside.

 

travis mccoy, prompt: sunday

Some kinda slow groove of a dream, blink of hazy sunshine and bottled water on the nightstand, Pete's scrawl on his arm in silver sharpie, _make it gold_ , bright against his other ink, his own hand wrapped around his dick, warm and easy, brush of his fingers over his nipples, sharp tug he feels in his balls, his legs pulled up and his throat bared, more writing on his thigh, _you still smell like me_ , and Travis gasps, sucks all the air from the room and breathes in smoke and oranges and happy lost boys, almost his favorite way to wake up,  almost, curled toes and too many colors, come in his hair, his hands, his sheets, _like alchemy and stars_ looped across his belly, jizz pooling on his skin and blurring the letters, a note on his window, _it's sunday, baby, go back to sleep_.

 

pete wentz, prompt: fursuit

The thing is, for Pete, it's not about the outside of the suit at all, not really, although there's maybe one or two he really does like, true, but that's just aesthetics, just perception, just, whatever, it's not about that on the inside, it's not about anything but the heat and the darkness and the way he almost disappears, almost, everything he is on the outside stripped away, just heat and sweat and the smell inside, gross in so many ways and still it's a fucking turn on, being inside, his dick hard and poking out and no one can see, no one even knows it's him in there, not yet, not yet, his nipples tight little peaks, dick brushing against the lining of the suit, leaking into it, every swish of his hips making him bite his lip and moan low, random brush of another body, maybe an outstretched paw or a flicking tail, it could be, it could be anyone, or maybe not even that, maybe it's just him, just heat and pressure and it's just him on the inside, just him and he couldn't stop now even if he wanted to, he can't even catch his breath, leaning hard against the wall, thighs shaking, head turned inside the suit and his hands clasped over his dick as he thrusts and thrusts, come soaking into the suit, into his skin, into the air he's breathing, the air he'll keep breathing until he peels himself out again, later, much later, he thinks, this time it'll be much later before he's ready to be outside again, ready to just be Pete.

 

jack harkness, prompt: tumbleweed

It's almost easier with an audience, with someone watching him he doesn't have to think, a stranger, a friend, someone else's hands, big and rough, callused, nails bitten low or clipped carefully, soft hands with painted fingernails, bright red, pale pink, glittery, green, blue, black, Jack hasn't ever been particular, has taken his pleasure where he could, has taken it himself more times than he can count, his own hand the same as it ever was, boring as tumbleweed and still, all he has to do is remember how it was when he was young, younger, a boy under the covers in his parents house, his old bed narrow and warm and his hand so much smaller then, his body still changing, something new and dangerous and he still wasn't sure it was okay but he knew he couldn't stop, he couldn't, not now, not when he knew how it felt to hold his balls in one hand and his dick in the other, knew even if he held still, so still, just his dick pulsing under his hand, his balls pulled up tight, even if he stayed just like this, even then he'd make mess of himself, stain his sheets if he wasn't careful, but it just felt _so good_ , his hand, his dick, smooth and perfect and he could never go back, he knew that now, and maybe he would never change again, maybe his body was done with that now, he didn't know, but he could still remember how it was, orgasm like time washing over him, taking him over, taking him back.

 

jack o'neill, prompt: gun

Some guys treat their gun like it's their dick, but Jack's careful with his gun, respectful, it's saved his ass more times than he can count, but his dick, his dick's another story, trouble right from the start, always hard, always ready, even now its jutting away from his body, silver hair curled around the base, and even now he's rough with it, hard fast strokes, blunt edge of his nails, swipe of his thumb over the head, wet and slick, and it's not a gun, it's not even close to a gun, dark burn of pleasure behind his eyes, jizz on his belly, his chest, sticky and drying and fuck, he's too old for this shit, swipes his t-shirt over his skin and closes his eyes, soft laugh when he thinks about his gun again, inspection-ready even now, cleaned and oiled and squared away because he's careful with his gun, but his dick's always been another story.

 

 

\-- End --


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